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Having my first real fight with Dixon cemented that he has the ability to break my heart. And he did. I went home numb, unsure of what came next. I switched off from humanity and slept my pain away. I awoke the next day to an abundant amount of missed calls and text messages, but while I was originally hurt, my pain was overtaken by anger.
He said that I was to stop allowing Dylan to control my life, but honestly, I felt like he was doing the same. He apologized for having his hands on me, but the worst thing was that it felt like he was trying to step into my brother’s shoes. That fact overshadowed the faint bruising on my arm because the unseen bruising hurt more.
But Dixon is persistent, and it seemed the more I ignored him, the more unrelenting he became. I wasn’t ignoring him to gain attention. I needed to sort myself out. When he’s close by, he clouds my judgment.
So for the past week, I’ve done some soul-searching and spoken to my doctor about what I should do next. The fact Dylan will be living in the same building as me has really stirred up a lot of memories, ones I thought I was slowly overcoming. Once again, I feel like a prisoner in my own skin.
The only thing keeping my mind from going stir-crazy is school. However, when I stumbled on questions along the way, all I could think was that I needed my personal tutor to show me the way. Nursing internships are steadily approaching, and the possibility of being miles away from New York seems all the more appealing.
So I’m here because, honestly, I don’t know what else to do. This past week has been awful, and no matter how much I try to ignore Dixon, he simply won’t go away. Not just physically but also emotionally. He’s embedded firmly in my heart, and I feel lost without him. And I hate it.
Today, I will listen to what he has to say because ignoring him is no longer an option. I’m curious to know why I’m here, and I also want answers to how he knows Beth.
So many emotions are running through me right now; if I escape this day unscathed, it’ll be nothing short of a miracle.
My palms begin to sweat the moment I amble up the driveway and am faced with the broad back of Dr. Dixon Mathews. Hishead is lowered, and his defeated exterior reflects my current feeling. I press on, anxious to know what happens next.
The invisible pull evident between us from the beginning sizzles, and with a slow, steady turn, Dixon spins to look at me. My choppy breath gets caught in my throat because no matter how confused I am, I’m ecstatic to see him. Instead, I squash down my glee and remind myself I’m here for answers. I will my legs to move until I am standing a few feet away.
We stand staring at one another silently, so many unspoken words passing between us. How I’m going to get through the day without it ending in tears is beyond me.
“Hello, Madison.”
His voice breaks my daze, and I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Thank you for coming. Shall we go in?”
I can feel him watching me intently underneath his sunglasses, waiting for my reply. Is he afraid I’ll say no? Or can it be he’s afraid I’ll say yes?
I have no idea why we’re standing at the bottom of the steps of Sunnyfields Hospital, but I have an inkling it’s got to do with his dad. Dixon has gone into little to no detail about his father, but since he’s shared that his father had a breakdown after his mom passed away, I figured he was in a rest home. The security guard manning the well-enforced glass doors tells me otherwise, however.
Looking up at Dixon, I nod once again, still too afraid to speak.
With a sigh, Dixon turns and climbs the steps, his pace slow and poignant. I can see he doesn’t want to go in here, but he does anyway. He stands at the top of the stairs, holding the door open for me. I enter quietly and am instantly hit with the smell of despair. Looking around, I see soft pastel colors everywhere, which conceal the loneliness inhabiting these walls.
“Hello, how may I help you?” asks a young nurse behind a glass alcove.
Dixon removes his glasses, his blue eyes appearing crystal under the fluorescent lights. “My name is Dixon Mathews. I’m here to see Pino Di Matteo.”
“Are you family?”
Dixon clears his throat. “Yes. I am his son.”
I remain motionless while the blonde nurse smiles, slipping a sign-in book through the panel under the window. “Will you please both sign in, and I’ll get you visitor’s badges.”
Dixon scribbles his name and moves to the side so I can do the same. I can feel the heat radiating off him, but I tell myself to focus because I’m intrigued about why we’re here. The nurse hands us our passes and gives us directions to his room.
Dixon’s hands are dug deep into the pockets of his jeans as we silently make our way down the hall. The cleanliness is harsh and sterile, and the farther we descend, the more obvious it becomes that the name of this place is indeed deceptive. People sit, staring into vast nothingness as we walk past them, not appearing to even register where they are or that most are sitting in pajamas at two in the afternoon.
As we reach a doorway, a guard presses a computerized panel and lets us into a section that thankfully isn’t as bad as the one we just walked through. The doors in this ward aren’t locked, and the atmosphere isn’t as barren. Arts and crafts are scattered along the walls, but some of the works look to have been made by young children. Where are we?
Stopping outside of room fifty-nine, Dixon takes a deep breath. He doesn’t hide his uneasiness, and I suddenly understand why we’re here. In this circumstance, Dixon’s actions amount to a thousand words. He’s allowing me access to his most vulnerable reality, opening up a piece of himself that Iknow he hasn’t revealed to anyone else. I’ve shared my secrets, and now, it’s time for him to do the same.
I want to reach for his hand, but I don’t. I, better than anyone, know that something like this needs to be done with both feet firmly cemented to the ground. His heavy breathing and transfixed stare reveal he almost certainly hasn’t seen his father since the day he left him here.
A small part of me weeps for the man who isn’t as invincible as he wants the world to think.
He hesitates one final time before he steps forward and walks into his father’s bedroom. I follow but give him some breathing room, not wanting to smother him. The room is modestly decorated with a single bed, bedside table, and a small table and chair. I can’t help but feel this space is bare, not because there is no room but rather the simple man sitting in a tattered brown lounge chair in front of the bay window doesn’t have the need for such fancy riches. He’s content with a good view and the silence.
